Not Another Word
by rjmg
Summary: You knock on his door, hoping to strike a conversation with nubby-horned badmouth for no apparent reason. Moments ago, you swear to whatever deity you worship, that the notion of this wouldn't have been conceivable in a million years. Karkat x reader


You knock on his door, hoping to strike a conversation with nubby-horned badmouth for no apparent reason. A minute or so passes as you stand outside, waiting, and then hearing a loud thump inside followed by unrefined cursing—_cute,_ you think, but then flush the entire idea out with a snap. The door knob jerks and you can tell he's fumbling to get it. But just before it goes unlocked, he just couldn't help biting back a heart-warming welcome from inside.

"WAIT. WHO THE FUCK IS THERE?"

Uhh, you say, just me. He detects who the voice belongs to because the door knob moves again, and before you know it you're face to face with this crabby troll—a tad tiny to put on such a grumpy demeanor, now that you think about it. You're actually surprised (for the first time) at how he can keep such confidence, considering almost all his neighbors tower over him; you, for example. You must be a foot or so taller than him, so now you're looking down, getting a _vantastic_ view of those horns—

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT YOU NOOKSUCKER" he scolds with the scarlet shade on his face up a notch once you've passed the line in staring. But wait; is his voice, maybe…subtler? Towards you? You can't help but allow the expression of surprise to register in your face, and he just hisses and turns from you irritably in response to it. Marching away in crankiness, he is still unable to avoid the knee-high table before him, breaking his grand display of pride as he stumbles and falls. You try your hardest to stifle a laugh but your lips just won't cooperate. A chortle slips your mouth and he hears it, snapping his head in your direction, anger evident in his face.

Oh shit, you think. _Run, run, run,_ the exit's just behind you, but your feet remain glued to the floor, as if his fiery glare is sealing you in place. But before you know it, he's already shoving you towards the door. You think for a split second that he'll just kick you out of his hive like that, and for some reason you buy enough time in the intensity of the moment to make a mental note never. to piss. Karkat. off.

Just as you're about to brace yourself and wrap your arms around your own body as a shield from whatever blow you might receive, you find out—delayed of the realization and startled by the actuality—he already has them pinned firmly on both sides of you, held down by his menacingly tight grip. No, the door _did not_ open for you—and by the looks of your positions, that door won't go unlocked anytime soon, for you are now helplessly standing (slightly shaking) against it instead; held there by great force from this creature (despite his size) whose face is in a snarl and whose body is tense, just inches from your own. You're afraid to know what happens next.

"AND I WAS BEGINNING TO THINK THAT YOUR PUNY HUMAN BRAINS WEREN'T AS ABYSMAL AS THEY'D COME OUT TO BE—OR YOUR WORTHLESS BATSHITTING DOUCHESACK-INFESTED SPECIES, FOR THE MATTER," he sneers gently into your ear. "PRAISE YOUR EARTHLY DEITY OR WHATEVER SHIT YOU ALIENS WORSHIP, BECAUSE YOU—YOU HAVE STRANGELY PIQUED MY ATTENTION. OTHERWISE I WOULD'VE ALREADY HAULED YOU OUT OF HERE BY YOUR NON-EXISTENT HORNS—YOU PATHETIC, WEAKLING CLUSTERFUCK—PERHAPS TO AVOID THE SPREAD OF WHATEVER UNSPOKEN STAGE OF THE CONTAGIOUS VIRUS CALLED "INANITY" YOU HEINOUS BLITHERING ASSFUCKS MIGHT BEAR."

The mention of "weakling" flips on a switch labelled 'anger' within the depths of your _weakling_ being, but you know better than to mess with a steaming bloodhound. You try to turn your head away from his intimidating eyes, try your best to tone down your own irritation to keep it from reflecting in yours, but his hand catches your chin and coaxes it (not so gently) to stay. It's as if he wants to read you. Read you entirely, like a flimsy map that he has every right to sprawl and explore. Only you aren't, so you think: an attempt of confronting him physically could not even be remotely possible—your strength as mighty as a prune as his was a walnut, at the very least—so instead, in a low, resentful groan, you muster up all the strength in your being to mutter,

"Fuck. You. Vantas." The hiss of the final letter dripping with angst, lingering a bit longer than the rest of the letter clusters before you spit. Bullseye.

Now that that's out there, you weigh through your reflections just moments ago while conspiring against him and the situation. You bet with yourself which was most likely to happen—or perhaps just wanting to imagine most favorable instance that'd follow to alleviate the urgency of what you've done. There are only a handful of plausible scenarios that could ensue, you think, and one way or another he'd have to lock down on an answer: (a) if you're lucky, the least he could do is grimace and shove you against the door in one great thrust before kicking your sorry ass the hell out, (b) he'd grimace and shove you against the door before giving you an emotionally piercing lecture on more of how aggravating you and your kind are until your ears bleed (and this is already slightly better than the next because what follows after the speech could still end well, if you maneuver the events properly), and lastly (c) he'd beat you up to a pulp with no second thoughts.

But no, his next course of action was _not_ among the options you assumed. Far from _anything_ you'd have considered possible.

Instead of slamming a fist charged with fury at you, his eyes reveal a flicker of lustful delight and his mouth draws up at the edges. You are greeted by intimidating teeth. And his _tongue_. Candy red. It slithers to the trail of wetness you spat on his face; licking—slowly, sensually—and then withdrawing it back to its place. You, on the other hand, are dumbstruck enough to just stare at it. You persuade your eyes to look someplace else—like at his eyes perhaps? But just as they were about to do so, they get caught before making it halfway up his face as your eyelids snap shut; an involuntary reaction as his mouth slams into yours.

Your mind swims in the flood of how everything that had transpired within the past 5 minutes is completely, inexplicably wrong on _so _many levels, but your mouth and everything within it refuse to coordinate with your thoughts. His tongue prods insistently at your pursed lips for entrance and you not-so-forcefully comply, fervently sticking yours deep into his mouth, oblivious to his teeth of daggers scraping the surface of your tongue as he mimics the action.

He grips your arms and closes the space between both bodies as your hands play in his hair, thumbs tracing moderate circles on his horns as he lightly nips at your lips, sensing gradual shudders from him as you continue stroking. Both of you are huddled hotly against the wall now—transported there from all the ardent movements of your bodies—, pressed together as if gravity's mechanics applied only on both your backs.

As your tongues continue to glide against each other and you accustom yourself to the surprisingly intoxicating taste of him, you then feel a slight twitch by your heated thighs, a gentle jab that explains entirely what crabby Karkat here desires. At this, you pull your head back a bit to examine the commotion down there, you are greeted with a bulge happily poking from his tightening pants. He scowls at the sight—of him being unable to restrain himself, of your attention to his mouth being diverted to _this._ It makes you chuckle.

For some abnormally strange reason, you are turned on by this—perhaps amused by the whole idea of _this_, for moments ago you swear to whatever deity you worship that the notion of _this_ wouldn't have been conceivable in a million years. You whisper against his lips, teasing, _may I?, _which only earns you a glare from those bloodshot eyes. He detaches his deathly grasp on your arm to reach down, but you stop his hand in mid-motion, thinking it's your turn to repress. But the whole idea fails immediately as he swats away your grip and sends your arm flying back to your side.

And then the next few moments pass in a hasty haze—zippers unzipping and hands exploring and pent-up breaths and discarded clothing—only snapping back to your senses when you feel warm breaths merge with the warm sensation welling on the apex of your thighs. You are still against the wall, but Karkat's no longer standing eye-to-eye before you; instead, he is poised to attack, down on his knees, ready to tease you further. You throw your head back in ecstasy as he draws his mouth in.

You raise your hips towards him with great need. Soft moans escape his lips as his tongue weaves its way to your climax, and all your instincts lead to either gripping his hair or clutching the wall, gritting your teeth in a tremendous effort to minimize the noise. And just as you're about to touch the peak of elation—body tense and ready to unravel, all flustered before him—he halts in all godforsaken abruptness. He smirks, rises, snakes up your body and attempts to level his head with yours; burying his face in the crook of your neck to whisper against your salty skin,

"IMPATIENT LITTLE FUCKER. WAIT 'TIL I'M INSIDE," the words dawdling and dragging and goddamn provocative, and you could feel your arousal all over his face as his cheek slides against your skin.

It sends violent shivers all the way down your spine, consuming your entire body successively, just as ripples in water would grow. And with those said, in an impatient manner, he thrusts his member into you with aggressive coercion before you could even permit him entrance—not that you don't favor what's happening, though. He grabs for your thigh desperately and you more-than-willingly hook it around his waist, leaving the other leg pegged on the ground for leverage and balance. He circles his hips for your pleasure before he pulls back deliberately, just to come again charging on; faster, harder. You tiptoe now with your back arched against the wall, lower torso pressing against his skin while your head's tossed far back—dishevelled hair fanned out and draping across your shoulders and your throat's very much exposed; bare and delightfully welcoming. He lays his lips just below your collarbone, sucking and nipping and licking and tracing, teasing it enough before he bites.

The sting from the disturbed skin of your neck sends an initial jolt of pain through you as blood trickles down, but it dies down almost immediately as the immense pain and pleasure everywhere else drowns it out—the muscles from your legs strained from all the effort, and throbbing and waves of bliss from down there caused by the relentless attacks of this troll. He detaches himself from your neck just to show you what he's done, like a little child eager to show his artwork. He gazes at you with a smirk plastered on his undoubtedly flushed face, your blood adorning grey skin around his mouth, and he licks it off just for fun. You stare intently as this transpires; having those few moments register in slow motion before both your mouths collide once again. And as he does this, you taste it—your blood, your arousal, his arousal—and it takes you higher up a notch. The blend of flavors coupled with the intense momentum your bodies possess just sends you off the edge, and you know you couldn't have held back any longer.

You bark out his name in a submissive breath, trying with all your being to keep your shit together, even though you're aware you have gone far beyond that thought even before you considered it. But surprisingly, that was the last piece to this twisted puzzle; what caused him to unravel completely before you—the veins on his neck bulging and his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth agape as a heavy moan escapes; truly a spectacle that must be preserved in the memory nook—, losing his shit just as much as you lost yours.

And there you were, two different beings in an unusual frenzy, panting, exhausted. You surrender your weight to the wall as he surrenders his weight on you; both bodies huddled together under a stuffy haze of hotness after all that has happened. As you stare up the ceiling and recount in an effort everything that has come about, he leans in and drops his chin close enough to ear level to warn in a gruff—ly sexy?—voice,

"NOT. ANOTHER. WORD. ABOUT THIS."

You're left to nod and comply.


End file.
